Sweat dripped in her eyes, the muscles in her legs and arms screamed, but Shayne refused to tap out. To concede defeat as her opponent broke her hold, rolled and swung up behind her to pin her down. His movements clean. Sharp. Swift.
Even if she was pushed to near exhaustion, Shayne Melo wasn't a quitter.
"Use your legs," Asher roared, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Legs, Shay!"
Before she found a breath to act on his shouted commands, brawny arms circled around her waist, winching tight as the heavy mass hauled her around and over. She used the movement to her advantage, twisting and turning to regain footing, sliding through his grip like a slicked palm in a handshake. Out—she shot to her feet. To where she was most comfortable, and raised her guard.
Her sparring partner rose, a solid and lean one-eighty with almost six inches on her. Tough odds, but Shayne liked to be pushed. To be challenged.
"That's it," Asher called out, clapping his hands to end the session. "Hit the showers, Mendez. Everyone else clear out, good work today, people. Let's keep this momentum going into next week." he said, casting his words to the cluster of fighters she trained with gathered around the roped ring. A large group of twelve guys and four girls. But of the bunch she was Asher's best.
Growing up, her father had insisted his kids learn how to defend themselves. Protect themselves. She'd learned Krav Maga from an accomplished from a former Israel Defense Forces turned private security, and the art of wushu from a Chinese master. She'd loved the lethal beauty of martial arts and had craved so much more, and it was here she'd found it, studying Jiu-jitsu and Judo under the tutelage of Asher Athari.
He had a great eye and had trained with some of powerful and impressive names throughout Asia and Brazil as a kid, straight through to adulthood. At twenty-two he went pro in the ring for seven years and had carved out a formidable reputation for himself when, unexpectedly, he walked away from it all and opened shop in California to train others.
It was around this time that Shayne walked into his life. She'd worked her ass off for two solid years. And had high hopes he'd pick her this year for the trip to Vegas where amateur contenders were set to congregate for a shot at breaking into UFC.
He pointed at Shayne as the crowd cleared out, and wiggled it for her to come closer. As Shayne approached, Asher pulled himself up and between the ropes to join her on the mat.
"Your takedowns are still sloppy," he said, handing her a towel so she could clean the sweat of her face and neck. "And we've got a long way to go with your ground game."
"You're full of sh!t." Draping the moist towel around her neck, she gripped the dangling ends. "Did you see me in there?"
"I did." He nodded, dark hair tied back away from his angular face. "Sloppy. You think Rousey would've given up her guard in that last hold?"
"My record is solid," Shayne argued. "Twelve and Oh, straight knock outs in the first round. You're stressing for nothing."
"Not nothing." Asher shook his head, hands on his hips. "You're getting good, but there's still a clear hole in your defenses and yes, your striking is strong, I'll give you that. Maybe too damn strong—you've never had to worry about your back and how to protect when you're on the ground. Don't mistake luck for invulnerability."
Shayne razzed her lips. "Whatever."
A sweep of legs, a tangle of arms—and she was down, quick and clean. So hard, so fast her breath slammed out of her lungs the second she hit the mat. Twisting, Shayne arched, sucking in a fresh breath as she turned against him, bucking against his chest as his fingers closed around her wrist. He was going in for a submission and she had a second to find the loophole and weasel through when she caught on too late—he'd expected that from her, and released the arm-bar to switch in for a full mount, pinning her down.
Defeating her.
Triumph flashed across his face with wicked humour. "You were saying?"
"Come at me square next time and we'll see who winds up mounting who."
Still on top of her, Asher laughed, a low, easy rumble. "You're talented, Shayne. And fearless," he said, fingers gliding through the short cap of her hair, "but that's not enough. Not nearly enough in this game. You've gotta be hungry. So hungry nothing else matters."
"I'll have you know I'm very hungry. Starved." Arching up, she caught his bottom lip with her teeth, bit hard enough to see the glimmer of desire spark in his dark eyes. She knew his buttons, knew how to push them and right now she wanted him as far as he could go.
His mouth slid over hers, hot and fast, just how she liked it. And deep. So wonderfully deep. A rasp of beard, the glide of tongue, the settling weight of his body. Shayne's legs locked around his waist and she rolled against the hard swell of his erection.
Teasing him. Tempting him.
He broke the kiss with a moan and a curse. Levered up onto his elbows. "We've gotta stop this."
"Oh, come on! My flight leaves in three hours. Plenty of time to squeeze in a quickie. Maybe two if you shower with me."
"It's not that, Shayne."
"Don't be such a Princess," she teased, gliding her tongue from the divot in his throat to the dimple in his chin. "You've f*cked me in way more daring spots than this."
Biting his lip to hold back a laugh, Asher shook his head and whispered, "We've got company."
Shayne groaned, arms falling away from his neck to flop against the mat as Asher slid off her and rocked back to his knees. "Hey, f*ckwad, if you don't take a hike in the next three seconds I'm going to knee you so hard your balls tickle your throat."
"Is that anyway to talk to your favourite brother?"
Rolling to her side, Shayne angled her gaze. Laughed. "F*ck me sideways. What are you doing here?"
Marco's teeth flashed, full and white in a dazzling grin that had earned him the moniker Spain's Golden Prince. "Please don't put that image in my head."
As she hopped down from the ropes, his arms swept around her and hauled Shayne's lithe, sweaty body against him for a hard, bracing hug. She loved his hugs, even as a little kid, she couldn't get enough of holding on to him. Her big brother. The single person in the world, other than her Sisters, she trusted beyond question. Who loved her without reservation or conditions and could look upon her—shorn hair, piercing, tattoos and come-at-me bro attitude, and see Shayne.
Also a competitive sports enthusiast, he had once been an avid member of Spain's Olympic yachting team at the Barcelona Games. Equally brilliant as he was handsome, with Master's in International Relations at Georgetown University in Washington and was also a certified helicopter pilot, trained by the Spanish Military academics where he later graduated as a lieutenant-colonel in the air force.
But as their uncle, the King of Spain, took a hit to his health, her brother had walked away from his love of competition to chair meetings of the Spanish armed forces, participate in military exercises and even travelled to various countries to promote Spanish business interests and culture globally.
All the standard feel-good duties of 21st-century royalty: pretty pictures, business development and warm words about forging new friendships and cultural ties.
"Did you see the fight?" she asked when her feet touched the floor again. She was tall, coming in at five nine, but standing next to Marco she had to tip her head up and just like that she was a little girl again, awed by her big brother. Eager to receive his affection and approval when she'd never cared about anyone else's.
"The tail end," he said, hands slipping into the pockets of his jeans. His cobalt cashmere sweater showed off the warmth of his Mediterranean skin, the gilded blonde of his hair and turned his eyes to sapphires. "Your coach is right; your ground game needs work."
Shayne bounced her fist off his shoulder. "Whose side are you on?"
"Yours. Always." He winked then shifted his gaze to Asher as he climbed down from the ring to join them. "Pleasure to meet the man who's kicking some sense into my sister."
"It's a fulltime effort." Asher sighed, shaking Marco's offered hand. Beyond them security waited by the doorways, dressed in jeans like her brother, but easy enough to spot in a place like this. She could smell out Special Forces
"What are you doing here?" Shayne asked again, noticing a woman for the first time off to the sides in a boring suit and flats. Dark hair coiffed in a bun.
"I think we should talk somewhere a bit more private?"
"You can use my office," Asher offered.
"Excellent. And I think, as her coach, you should be a part of this discussion."
Shayne's brows popped at the formality of his tone. "Discussion?"
Marco's eyes softened with a measure of sympathy. "Abuela sent me."
#
There was a reason why she'd settled down to train in Los Angeles. To get as far away from that embittered and judgemental old hag as possible.
Shayne barely heard another word as Asher led them all to the cloistered space of his office. A space he shared with his three business partners, which made it big enough for them all to comfortably sit down and talk though they all chose to stand.
By this point the woman had joined them, and under the florescent lighting she was plain-faced and entirely expressionless, her gaze sliding over Shayne's flushed body and the stark lines of tattoos that adorned her skin like art in a gallery.
While a select few were actually of symbolic merit, like the intricate Celtic knot of Sisterhood on her inner left wrist, the vast majority really came down to because she liked them. She'd been careful and selective in her choice of body art and in who took needle to her skin. And while not everything had meaning, they all certainly had purpose.
When that cool gaze reached Shayne's eyes, she'd expected to see disgust. Or apathy, or even baffled confusion. Instead she saw nothing. And that was a confounding change.
"Who's the chick?"
Marco winced at Shayne's abrupt choice of words and grating tone. "Part of the reason I was sent."
The woman stepped forward, a polite smile in place. "My name is Rita Tugonon, your grandmother hired me to help with recalibrating your...image."
"Interesting choice of words."
Asher cleared his throat. Marco averted his gaze. Rita didn't flinch.
"You're getting a bad reputation for getting in more fights out of the ring than you do in them. And it's starting to reflect badly on the rest of your family, especially after you put three guys in the ER last month in Prague."
She'd been out in Prague for an event, showing face in support of a local DJ new to the scene when a trio of guys glued themselves to her hip and wouldn't shove off. They'd made the mistake of thinking a lone female in a crowded club as an easy target to gang up on and intimidate.
She'd proved them wrong.
Shayne waved a hand, still wrapped with the bandages from her sparring session. "I was defending myself from sexual harassment. Last I checked that wasn't a crime."
Rita crossed her arms, stern with reproach. "I saw the reports. The photos from the hospital. Fractured ribs. Perforated eye sockets. Broken teeth...What started as self-defense went a tad overboard wouldn't you say?"
Temper sparked in her blood and her fingers curled, itching to hit something. "Those guys were animals looking for an easy target. Hell, if it hadn't of been me, it would have been some other chick. A chick that can't defend herself like I did. Who might've been dragged into an alley and gang raped, or simply degraded with their baseless jokes and fondling hands, so yeah, I put them down—hard. Maybe next time they'll think twice before doing that sh!t again."
"The intent was pure," Rita said gently, "but the execution was severely flawed, and deep down I think you know it. Violence isn't the answer. It solves nothing."
Shayne snorted a laugh. "Jesus, lady, what world do you live in?"
"The real world." Rita lifted her chin, crossed her arms. "The responsible world. The world of consequence and accountability."
"So my grandmother sent you here to clean up my act, did she?" Shayne shook her head, crossed her arms. "And how exactly do you suggest I go about that?"
"By coming home once in a while, for starters. Your family is working hard to restore the image of the monarchy in Spain and having you by their side as they do it could go a long way to resurrecting the name of Melo Diez Carabantes Fitz-James Stuart."
"This thing going on between you both," she forked her fingers between Shayne and Asher, "needs to stop."
"I'll sleep with whoever I want."
"I have to counsel against that."
"Are you going to tell me to take issue with all my lovers?"
"Only the married ones, yes."
Asher swept a hand over the back of his neck, swarthy skin flush with embarrassment. "My wife and I are separated."
Rita shrugged a shoulder. "Tabloids don't care. All they'll see is scandal and blast it across any media interface they can profit from. If you're not standing on the right side of the line, then you're a hazard."
"And what about you?" Shayne eased forward, stroked a finger across the band of Rita's arm across her chest, flirting dangerously close to the swell of her breast. "Which side of the line would you fall on?"
"If you don't back up and take your hands off me, I'll slap a sexual harassment lawsuit on you so fast you'll finally know what it's like to get knocked out."
Shayne pulled her hand away like she'd been scorched. "Jesus—lighten up. I was only kidding."
"I'm sure those guys in Prague would claim the same. You need to take a good hard look at your actions and show some respect. For me and for yourself. As a descendant of the Melo Diez Carabantes Fitz-James Stuart name—"
"Hostia puta," Shayne bite into the curse with a vicious snarl. "No one cares about the dusty, antiquated relic of my family name."
"Give me a moment alone with my sister," Marco said to both Rita and Asher.
When they were alone, Shayne rounded on him. "I can't believe you helped her ambush me."
"Rita—"
"Not Rita," she seethed. "I can handle Ms. Pris. I'm talking about that interfering bruja who has made it her life's greatest mission to see me miserable. How could you take her side? An image specialist?" She planted her hands to his chest, shoved hard so the back of his thighs bounced against Asher's desk. "The f*ck, Marco."
"Shayne..." he sighed, lowered to the edge of the desk. "I don't know if you've heard about Uncle Victor. He's not doing so well. It's not common knowledge yet, but he plans to abdicate the throne late this summer."
Uncle Victor, though fun, affectionate man that Shayne adored and thought of with great affection, after thirty-nine years as King, the legacy of his reign was strife with allegations of royal excess and infidelity.
She settled next to him on the desk, pinched the bridge of her nose. "So Papa will wear the crown. As she always wanted."
"No, he doesn't want to be King. Has no desire or interest, not after everything that's...happened of late. You know what this means."
"You," Shayne whispered, almost breathless, "you will be King."
Angling so he could face her, Marco's lips pressed into a thin determined line. "I need you, Shayne. I need to know you have my back. I can't do this without you."
She looked at her brother. Compassionate. Accomplished. Humble.
A king the people of Spain could be proud of with his stunning wife by his side, a woman without noble blood but a strong family name respected across Europe. Her brother was due to inherit the throne at a time where Spain was clawing itself back from years of crippling austerity, and faced the daunting challenge of rehabilitating a scandalized monarchy as well as unifying a divided country.
And so the question became whether a descendant of Spanish Kings and the granddaughter of a wine-making legacy could save the fragile Spanish monarchy?
With the weight of an uncertain future resting solidly on her brother's broad shoulders, he'd come here asking Shayne to help shoulder it with him.
She swallowed stiffly. "Okay."
Marco's shoulders visible eased. "Thank you."
"Shut up."
He laughed. Rising, he pressed his lips to her brow, folded her against him for a hard hug and she melted against him. Into him. All bruised aches and fractured edges of her pride soothed in his embrace. A balm.
"Oh, and I think you need to change your score card, Champ," he chuckled against her hair. "Because when it comes to Rita, I think you've met your match."
**AN**
So now we've officially met Shayne. The Sister who started it all.
I can promise you, she's going to keep this book intense and interesting. I'd love to hear what you think about her.
I don't know about you, but she's definitely someone I'd like to have in my entourage, having my back.
The video above is what inspired the 'Prague boys' and how Shayne took them all down and features Gili Ganani, a 19-year-old black belt in Krav Maga, a self-defense system developed for the Israel Defense Forces. She was waiting for her friends to arrive in the bar when the men started bothering her.
I can think of a few times when I'd gone out to a club on my own when these kinds of moves would have come in VERY handy.